


Worth It

by NemesisVII



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 22:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NemesisVII/pseuds/NemesisVII
Summary: You never know what might be in a stranger's house.Like dogs.





	Worth It

He loves clubs.

Well, that’s not strictly accurate. He could do without the pulsing music, the dark lights, the glitter, the underlying stench of alcohol and sweat. He’s not terribly big on how strangers paw at his ass and how hands slide down his body like they own it.

But he loves what these do to his humans.

The low lights create intimacy, the alcohol, lowered inhibitions. He watches from the bar as humans let themselves free, release parts of themselves that they deny come morning. The primal, animal side.

It’s just a shame he has to join it to bear witness.

He’s at the bar, nursing his fifth drink, a coke he paid premium to have to alcohol in. But it looks like he does and humans have slid past him, asking for his name and his number or simply for his body. He’s turned them all down with a flash of teeth and a hint of regret.

And perhaps he really should move. Bar space is prime reality when everyone needs more to drink to keep the illusion of inconsequence, and he’s getting jostled from all sides by drunk elbows and knees.

But any closer to the crowd, and he loses vantage, becomes _in_ the crowd, if not _of_ it.

He spies an island of calm, in the middle of the storm, and Izaya slithers to the man that created it. He’s also nursing a brown drink, but Izaya has no doubt this one is all alcohol. It doesn’t seem to bother him, he drinks it like it’s nothing but soda.

He’s out of place in the club. Not like Izaya is, in his coat. Izaya is sleek and young and pretty and the club is full of the sleek and young and pretty. The man is older, for one. And tired. It’s in the droop of his shoulders and the bags under his eyes. He’s above it all, in his pristine white suit that glows ever so faintly in the lights.

He belongs in a bar with quiet jazz playing in the background and no where near here.

“What’s someone like you doing all on their lonesome?” Izaya says, and he has to get right up close to the man’s ear to make himself heard. Clubs are not places for long, tender talks.

“Enjoying it.”

“It doesn’t look like it, ne?”

“Appearances can be deceiving.” And the man resolutely continues with his drink and ignoring Izaya.

Unacceptable.

“Do you want to dance?” Izaya says, this time pushing so that his body presses against the man’s arm when he leans in to speak in his ear.

“No.”

“Do you want to get out of here, then?”

 

“This isn’t what I had in mind,” Izaya says, wrapping his hands around a tea mug. The quiet of the diner is almost deafening compared to the club, and Izaya’s ears vaguely pulse with the remembered beat.

“You should have specified,” the man says, wrapping his hands around his own cup of coffee. “It’s more likely to get you what you want.”

“I’ll remember that in the future. Not that pancakes are an awful deal, of course.”

“Of course.”

“May I know the name of my provider of pancakes?”

The man hesitates, like he’s considering giving a false name. Like he might have a family or a girlfriend or someone that might object to taking someone from a club out to pancakes and waffles at approaching one in the morning.

“Shiki,” the man says at last, moments before pancakes clatter on the table before them.

“Well, Shiki,” Izaya says, eating his pancakes. “Let me be clear this time. Let’s get out of here so you can fuck me through whichever flat surface is closest to your door.”

Shiki’s eyes do what they didn’t in the club, and give Izaya’s body a long, hard look.

 

Shiki’s on him as soon as they’re in the taxi, and the cheap fake leather of the seat creaks as Shiki presses him further into them, and he tastes like whiskey and coffee when his mouth isn’t on Izaya’s neck, biting and sucking. It’s hard to part when the taxi rolls to a stop, but Shiki’s not far and his hands are hungry as soon as they’re in the elevator.

“I’ll this apartment,” Shiki says, hands trying to be in a million places at once and somehow succeeding.

The door swings open and.

And there’s happy barks. The happy barks of two sleek, hungry greyhounds as their owner returns.

“I just remembered I have a thing,” Izaya says, pulling away from hungry hands. “That I have to be at. Immediately.”

Shiki doesn’t protest as Izaya leaves, only looks at him with confusion that resolves into clarity as the dogs bark and paw at his clothes.

The door closes. Perhaps on more than just an apartment, but Izaya doesn’t stick around to check.


End file.
